In Name Only
by Maleficarumm
Summary: Voldemort is dead. The Wizarding World is at peace. Five years in and Magnolia Potter could say that there was very little at this point that could surprise her. It isn't until she awakes to the massive, swirling hole in the sky that she seriously starts to reconsider her stance. Fem!Harry
1. Prologue

Prologue

"Fear is a reasonable response to life." – _Welcome to Night Vale_

* * *

Cassandra Pentaghast is a woman hard-pressed for answers. It can be no surprise; The Conclave is destroyed, leveled, and everyone around it for miles is dead. There is Cassandra, there is Leliana, and there is a mountain of unanswerable questions in front of them. People are restless and rightfully so. Down the mountain, in Haven, their fear gives way to anger. There's fighting for food and shelter among other things. People gathered around to watch other refugees roll around in the muck like animals to beat each other senseless. At times like these she is eternally grateful for Cullen, whose years in the circle make him accustom to crowd control and everyday stupidities.

It allows her focus on more pressing matters, down on the outskirts of town where no one will think to look if they're focused on petty squabbling. The Templar guards see her approaching and step aside from the entrance into the cabin so that she may enter. Inside is warm, the hearth lit, windows sealed tight with magic, and for that she's relieved. Outside is such a bitter, oppressive cold that leaves little hope for adjustment. The mage is still working, sitting cross legged by the bedside in the same way she left him nearly half a day earlier. That he's still at work which could mean one of two things: that he has discovered something of value and saw it advantageous to work through the night, or he has found nothing and the girl will die.

Cassandra frowns.

Without the girl there are no answers. It's unpleasant to know the outcome of potential failure falls on one life. Nearly three days she has waited and now her patience grows thin.

"Solas."

The mage, Solas, turns and offers a neutral expression. He is guarded and little known about him, but he is a healer, and a proficient one. To turn him away would have been a fool's errand at a time such as this. Leliana's people watch him; there are Templars stationed outside. His staff has been taken. Solas is not trusted to roam free, but he is useful. She will not bar him from the help he can offer.

"Good morning, Seeker. I trust all is well."

"No," she says, "certainly not _well_ , but I'll survive.

He turns away from her, attention focused back at his work. He flips the girls hand in his own, palm up – bleeds his magic into it.

"Ah, yes of course. In times such as these one could hardly blame you. Though I am certain you have not come to see me this day to exchange pleasantries."

"You would be correct."

"Then what can I do for you?"

She steps closer, farther into the room for a better look at their suspect. Some of the color has returned to her face – no longer a sickly grey but tanned, with thick dark hair that plasters to her forehead with sweat. Even still she's far from healthy. The mark on her hand pulses – lights up the room in an ominous green glow, and Cassandra takes a step to the right, away from the young woman while still keeping both party members in view.

"That," she points to the mark. "It's been nearly three days. What progress have you made with it?"

Solas chuckles, mirthless, places the girl's hand back on her cot and stands to walk to the hearth where he conjures enough magic to stoke the dying fire back into a full blaze.

"You ask that as if I'm not dealing with completely unknown circumstances, though I do understand your weariness. I have stabilized the Mark though only temporarily. It is connected to the Breach in the sky and until it's stabilized the mark will remain unruly, unpredictable."

He tosses some of the dried herbs upon the mantle place into the fire – filling the room with a strange pungent smell.

"A fortnight ago you retrieved a satchel from her person. Might I ask what was inside?"

Cassandra shifts, puts all her weight on her back leg.

"Sweets of some sorts, mostly." She says vastly unimpressed. "There were other more…peculiar objects: sticks of some kind, two of them, craved. And a journal which should provide helpful. Anything else I will not share."

Solas nods at the small bit of information given and offers a short hum.

"We are getting off subject, though. Is there anything else I should know?"

"Yes. She awoke momentarily last night and – "

"What?" Cassandra snaps. "You were instructed to send word immediately if she awoke!"

Solas places his hands behind his back, inclines his head; a picture of calm in the face of her wrath.

"It was brief I assure you. By the time I'd thought to fetch someone she had already lost consciousness. Nothing she spoke was coherent, and therefore useless."

"By no word but your own!" She scowls, angry and at her wits end. "You say the Mark is stabilized?"

"…For now, yes."

Very well, then. She backs up; returning to the door in three easy strides and throws it open. The Templars at the door jump so far into the air it would be comical in any other situation. Right now it only adds to her frustrations.

"You," she barks, "fetch Leliana and Cullen. Tell them that they are needed _now._ We are moving the prisoner to the dungeon."

"Y—yes Seeker Pentaghast, right away!"

She slams the door in his face.

Solas is a mask of careful indifference.

"You'd place her in a cell even after what I've told you?"

"I'm putting her there _because_ of what you told me. That mark is dangerous and most likely the cause of all this; for all we know she's placed it there herself. If she woke up once she could wake up again. I won't have that girl wondering around here."

He's quiet for a long moment. What would his word mean in this situation? An apostate with an opinion means nothing. _Even still…_

"I ask that I still be allowed to observe the Mark. Until she awakens, that is."

"Very well, then."

And with that their conversation is over. Just in time it would seem – the door opens and Leliana's there, stone-faced and at the ready.

Solas sighs.

It's out of his hands now.

* * *

AN: So…here we go! The first chapter of anything I've posted in…forever. Since maybe around 2010, so things could be kind of rusty. Still, I hope that some will find the premise interesting enough to stick around for and maybe even offer a little feedback. Anyway I wanted to use this first part as a sort of jumping off point, so yeah.

Thanks for reading!


	2. Creature Fear

"I hope life isn't a big joke, because I don't get it." – _Jack Handey_

* * *

Chapter One: Creature Fear

When Magnolia was younger she was afraid of almost everything. She was frightened of the darkness of her cupboard, burning breakfast, and pulling weeds in the rain. She was afraid of being caught sneaking out from underneath the stairs at night to rummage through the pantry and what would happen to her if Dudley wasn't so fat and slow and could catch her as she shimmied up trees to avoid him. Magnolia particularly remembers being quite horrified of Mrs. Figgs' multitude of cats that never seemed to have a lack of malice toward her no matter the attempts at kindness.

During her time at Hogwarts had been a life changer. A couple of near death experiences here and there and bam, things aren't so scary anymore. She feared for other things: the death of loved ones, of incompetence, but not for herself. Who was she but a moveable piece in a dangerous game after all? She feared what The Order told her to: failure to act, weakness in will, shakable morale. But not for herself.

Never for herself.

This scares her though. The jarring feeling of missing time sets ice in her veins and numbs her fingertips. To reach and reach and come back with nothing – a brick wall set solid in her path with no way around.

The woman in front of her seems to think she knows something though. She's angry – passing back and forth in front of her on the cobble stone. She's not easy to see; not with the chains around her neck and hands that keep her head bowed and body locked in place – Magnolia takes to watching her feet. Soft black leather and thick silver buckles stop before her and the woman crouches to look her in the face. With short dark hair and tanned skin she's pretty, but almost in a break your jaw kind of way. Magnolia goes to make a remark when the pain happens – from the tips of her fingers to her toes, and she doubles over, clutches at her hand as it envelopes in that sickly green light again. Just as it did when she first awoke.

Her interrogator reaches forward of yanks her hand away from her chest where she attempts to cradle it in a futile attempt at comfort. She'd tell her to release the spell, to end the pain and allow her to speak if she could unclench her jaw to do so. But to do so would be to scream and she learned long ago screaming in the face of Death Eaters only makes matters worse. What else could they be but leftovers from the war? The pain that racks her body can be nothing if not an Unforgiveable and no others cast spells with such malice.

Her capture is speaking again.

Of something Divine, a Conclave, of the dead and a breach but the words mean nothing to her.

The woman brings her hand up far enough that her joints strain against her chains – closer so they can both see the glowing mark clearly.

"Explain this." She demands.

But there is no explanation, only missing time and hazy memories of putrid greens and shallow waters.

When had she woken up this morning? Had she eaten breakfast or fed Roisin? Her capture's accent is unfamiliar, but she's sure the guard that ran off to report her awakening spoke the Queens. Wherever she is she can't be far from London surly.

The woman seems to have had it with her silence because she tosses her hand down harshly and stands, turns almost completely away from her to face the other woman in the room who stands against the far wall – arms crossed and head dipped.

"Bring her with us, Cassandra." She purrs. "Let her see."

There's a long moment of consideration before Cassandra sighs, pulling a key from her person to unlock the restraints. Magnolia is grateful to be able to lift her head without resistance.

Cassandra grabs her by the arm and lifts her to her feet almost like she's nothing, which okay, is impressive if not a little surprising.

"Try anything and I _will_ kill you."

Somehow the words aren't as intimidating as their missing wands.

* * *

She watches the sky churn.

Sickly and green just like her hand, the clouds moving toward the fixed point in the sky. Like a whirlpool – gathering and disappearing into the heavens. Magnolia stands there in the cold snow, silent and terrified, and when she finally opens her mouth with what's supposed to be a question it comes out as a strangled gasp.

Her surroundings are alien; no familiar landmarks – a village tucked into a mountainside unlike which she has ever seen. No wands, or brooms, or Floo systems. These are Muggles and by the looks of it not modern ones either. Somehow that fact feels mundane in the light of everything else, for she can handle Muggles. Her wands are somewhere, surly. They must be.

But the _sky_.

The sky…

Cassandra says something, tells her not to move and walks off.

She won't. Can't, even though she wants to run and run and never look back. Instead she sinks into the cold snow and waits – focuses on the numbing of her hands, the burn in her tired eyes, and the threads in the green jacket that's certainly not hers.

 _Someone's dressed me?_

Magnolia rubs her burning palm into the snow hoping to relieve some of the pain. It does nothing.

 _If these are Muggles then who casted the spell?_

She looks down at her hand, glowing green and _hurting._ It's not an Unforgivable as she thought, but it's certainly not the work of a Muggle.

Cassandra is back within minutes and orders her up from her sitting place. She follows not because she wishes to but because she's already been threatened with death and the sword at Cassandra's hip doesn't look like it's for show. Magnolia didn't survive all those years fighting off a psychopath to fuck up and bite the dust now. Without either of her wands there's not much to do if Cassandra decides she's more trouble than she's worth besides run and hope to Merlin she's not as fast.

She trails behind Cassandra through a group of townspeople who sneer a whisper behind their hands, promptly ignores them, and is half way across the bridge leading into the forests when her hand convulses and the pain sends her face first into the snow.

Her muscles lock into place, the nerves under her skin feels like glass, and she grinds her teeth to silence herself. There are hurried footsteps before Cassandra speaks close at her side, places a hand on the middle of her back. Magnolia is glad at least that Cassandra has manners; she'll cleave her head straight off her shoulders but at least won't leave her face down in the snow.

It's a few minutes before her muscle loosen enough she can sit up. She spits a mouthful of snow onto the ground, dejected.

"That mark is spreading," Cassandra says. "As is the Breach in the sky, and until it's stable the mark on your hand will cause you pain. You _will_ die."

"Good to know." Magnolia replies between pants, and looks up into the twisting sky. Cassandra looks too. "Better get moving, then."

* * *

The fighting starts shortly after two other people join their group: a dwarf named Varric, and a man that's most certainly some sort of elf, named Solas. She spares a bewildered glance at the Muggle in their presence who doesn't even bat an eye. She's genuinely confused. She wants to ask, wants someone to _explain_ , but then a tear in the scenery spits out a few horrifying creatures that nearly take her arm off and her questions can wait. She yelps and throws herself back out of reach – stands there dumbfounded and useless without her wands – and a large formation of stone sails over her head, formed into a fist that barrels into one of several creatures to her left. Shocked, she turns, watches the elf spin and dodge in and out of attackers, wielding a staff that casts out what's without a doubt _magic_. Whatever relief she feels in numbed while she retreats and waits for the carnage to stop, and is defiantly back-burner bullshit when Solas grabs her hand, points it at the odd, shifting crack in reality and it _closes_.

She looks at him, frightened. He just smiles.

* * *

They tell her to close the big one now. Apparently two's the charm because she's seemingly had enough practice in the last hour or so flaring her hand around to stake their survival on. They bicker, like most people who manage her unfortunate fate seem to do. And while Cassandra, Leliana, and a man named Cullen argue with some church bloke Magnolia sighs, brings attention to herself.

Oh, whoops. Well now's just as good as any.

"Have one of you got my wands? Can't exactly fight without them."

The whole group turns toward her to look at her like she's asked if they can stop for a lunch break. _The hell?_ She tries again.

"Wands? You know for…um," Magnolia hesitates and glances at Solas. "Magic?"

"Magic?!" Church Bloke exclaims. "Marker preserve me."

"You're a mage, Da'len?" Solas is considerably nicer with his response.

 _Da-who-now?_

"Um, yes? A witch. Mage I suppose. I can't defend myself without – "

Someone clears their throat behind her and she turns to find one of Cullen's soldiers holding out a staff to her. It's intricate, decorated with crystals and beads, warped with jewel toned leather cords with a sharpened blade at its base. At its top sits a large glowing orb that radiate heat, wrapped tightly within spiraling branches. She takes it, flummoxed.

She must look as confused as she feels because Leliana speaks up.

"Is everything okay?" Her tone is chipped and cold the way it was in the dungeons.

 _Um, nope. Defiantly the opposite of okay._

"Fine." Magnolia says.

* * *

She can't fight. She focuses on the spell, goes through the steps in her head, but they _won't transfer_. They sputter and die on the end of her staff in puffs of smoke and embers.

 _Stupefy!_ She thinks.

Nothing.

 _Stupefy! Stupefy!_

There's _nothing_.

"Bloody hell!" She exclaims and has to retreat once again, forced to wallow like a daft idiot while the others take care of business.

Solas gives her an odd look.

Without her magic she can't fight and makes for a very confused, angry target. She's glad Cassandra is such a powerhouse and can pick up her slack. Still, it doesn't help the hit to her pride when the fighting has ended and Cassandra turns toward her with a tremendously unimpressed expression.

"My—my magic isn't working right."

Cassandra makes a disgusted noise, Varric offers a smile, and Solas is silent.

"Ah," says Varric. "Don't beat yourself up about it. We all have off days."

"Off days _aside_ ," Cassandra says. "We still have work to do. You cannot fight but you can close the rift. Come."

* * *

The fight at the rift is brutal. There's little to do but watch from her perch – up high and away from the battle. The creatures that pour from the rift are unlike anything she's ever seen; twisted, mangled things that screech and scramble her thoughts. The final one on huge. It _talks._ And it takes quite the shit kicking before it falls, breaking into ash as disappearing into the tear.

When it's all over they call her down and she hurries – past charred corpses and some sort of glowing red crystals with her eyes cast down. She'd like not to remember this. In the middle of the rubble she stands, lifts her hand toward the sky, and it connects like a puzzle piece. The pain rips into her arm, down her spine, to her _bones._

Magnolia sways, eyes rolling and bile rising in her throat.

She's unconscious even before she can see the tear close.

* * *

AN: So these first couple of chapters are going to be used mainly for setting scenes and working through Magnolia's confusion and mindset. There's a lot to cover; even in-game the Inquisitor is confused as hell, and they're _part_ of that world. Now imagine someone who's not, and suddenly there's so much to cover. But after the initial nitty-gritty we get into the fun stuff: magical know-how, relationship building, and general lost in translation troubles. With that being said I'm so happy to see people are interested in this so far. I always feel nervous about writing and it warms my heart to see people are willing to give me a chance!

Until next time,

Maleficarumm


	3. Beginning of a Beginning

Just because everything is different doesn't mean anything has changed. – _anonymous_

* * *

Chapter Two: Beginning of a Beginning

This is the second time she's woken up somewhere strange and is grateful that at least in their habit of moving her around while she's unconscious they have the decency to give her a bed this time. Her hand still hurts though is less excruciating, and the warmth in the cabin is pleasant. Far more pleasant than waking in chains, confused and uncomfortable. Whatever she's accomplished must be good, otherwise Magnolia expects her conditions wouldn't be nearly as cozy.

From the back window she can see the sky. _It's calmer now_ , she thinks. Just like her hand.

Magnolia stretches, wiggles her toes in the fur throws, and looks around. Surprised but overjoyed to find she's alone this time around. Without the guards to watch her or Cassandra and Leliana breathing down her neck she has time to think, to collect her thoughts and sort through recent memory.

But what does that entail exactly?

 _Think. There must be something. There's always something._

Not all is forgotten. She has her name, and age, the street name where she grew up and the names of her friends. She remembers the letters from Ron and Hermione resting on her fireplace, reminding her of the fast approaching holiday and asking if she'd make it this year, because she hadn't come last year or the year before that.

But what does she remember about that morning specifically?

 _Dying embers in the mantle place. Dust molts through sunlight. Clouds are moving in, it's going to rain. Have to get up. Have to move today._

She woke up, showered, and sat down for breakfast as she always does. And then the Howler came, from Draco – the git, something about research and a threat to _be on time,_ as if she's ever anything but. She finishes her meal, and leaves for work.

 _What else? What else is there?_

There's nothing. A smear of ink where words should be and her frustration mounts tenfold. How can there be _nothing?_ To travel far enough to end up somewhere in the mountains, somewhere out of the Wizarding World, is no small feat. Is she even in Britain anymore? There are mountains, surly, but not of this caliber. To be somewhere so foreign can only mean someone else had a hand in her being here.

That thought alone is enough to make her heart race and her temperature rise, furious.

Her first thought is someone has casted a spell; wiped her memories, placed her in that rubble of left her to be framed. But through that tear had come what sounded very much like her. The others had thought so as well if their skeptical looks had anything to do with it. That deep, unsettling voice asked for her head. That woman – The Divine – told her to run. And even without that fact the question still remains: who would go through the trouble?

She positive there are leftover Death Eaters out there somewhere, but any Death Eater to capture her and live to tell about it would kill her. Or at the very least torture her into insanity; nothing says kill me slowly like 'I destroyed your master'.

Suddenly her bed doesn't feel so comfortable and she forces herself up and out of the furs even as her body screams in protest. She could use the rest, really. Her body aches in a way it hasn't in quite some time. But her wands are missing – taken, and without them she has no proper source of channeling magic.

There's a fresh change of clothing at the bottom of her bed: a thick red tunic and a pair of trousers. Magnolia doesn't change, too anxious to worry about it.

She fastens her clashing green coat and swings the door open.

As soon she steps out her cottage she wishes she hadn't. There are people everywhere; gathered in front of her door, down the walkways and up the steps. They whisper not venomously as they had when she first awoke, but with reverence. Eyes wide, they call her savior.

Hero.

Herald of Andraste!

All she hears is 'The Girl Who Lived'. It's a thought that settles about as well as acid.

One of the guards steps up (Cullen's man she believes), a barrier between her and the townspeople, and ushers her toward the Chantry, tells her that she's wanted in the 'War Room'. Magnolia's more than happy to oblige and hurries through the crowd off to the building in the distance that the soldier points to. In her escape she sees Varric, hunched over by a fire the campsite. He notices her and waves, a small knowing smile on his face. She won't talk to him now, not with all these people speaking in their collective mass of roaring whispers. Magnolia will come back later maybe, if the dread settles.

It's a relief once she's finally in the Chantry. To shut those great wooden doors to the cold and people behind them is the most contented she's been since waking the first time. Even with the explosive argument that's _very_ _clearly_ about her she can't seem to be bothered. Rather they fight than praise.

She sits outside the door at the end of the hall, cross-legged on the floor until the screaming collapses into heated loud whispers, stands, brushes her backside off and knocks. There's silence on the other end before the door swings open. It's Cassandra.

"Hey," Magnolia says. "Having fun?"

Cassandra scoffs, moving aside so she can pass unimpeded. She's barely in the door before Church Bloke – Roderick is at it again; red-faced and demanding her head.

"Disregard that," orders Cassandra to the pair of guards on duty. "And leave us."

They bow and shuffle out the door.

Magnolia is somewhat relieved that at least years of having her life threatened has made her mostly immune to threats of execution of else she'd be sweating. This man is weak – in both disposition and power – and she's certainly faced worse; has looked people in the face that could carve Churchy up the middle, peel off his skin and wear him an unimpressive looking human suit.

This is nothing.

This is _daft._

"You'd really have me arrested, after everything that I did?" She asks.

"I would. Someone _must_ be held responsible. Our Divine is dead, the Breach in the sky still lives, and for all we know you've intended it that way considering you're the only one left alive!"

"Seems a fair trade, I say. Considering I'm also I only one who doesn't know what the bloody hell you're talking about." Magnolia turns her caustic glare from him across the room to Cassandra.

Cassandra doesn't look very fazed.

"Tell me," she says, "Does the Ministry know you have witches and wizards casting spells around Muggles? I saw Solas fighting. Whatever manner of elf he is, their magic is powerful and was cast in the presence of those _clearly_ lacking their own. Yet you'd have me believe no one's the wiser?"

" _Their_ magic?" Cullen casts a glance at her, to Cassandra, and finally to Leliana – who stands nearby, head tilted and watching, like she's trying to figure out a piece to a difficult puzzle.

"What is this Ministry you speak of?" Cassandra asks.

There's a moment of hesitation, a moment where she thinks she might be wrong. The look in Cassandra's face is genuine – she doesn't know what she speaks of. Had she been wrong? Solas had done something, yes, but maybe…

"You— _all_ of Britain's magic is governed by a Ministry."

Something enters Leliana's face that sets her survival instincts on edge. It reminds her of being a child again – watching that great, colorful turban unravel from around her teacher's skull and knowing she's no place to go. Small and helpless in the presence of something that's certainly unavoidable. Whatever door she's opened is surly unpleasant.

Cullen, whose been watching Leliana carefully, takes the initiative. "Chancellor Roderick, we will continue this another time."

"What?! You cannot just –"

Cassandra thrusts a finger toward the door. "Out. _Now_."

For all Roderick's holier-than-thou attitude he still seems to understand a losing battle when he looks one in the face, for Cassandra is much like a dragon in nature: fierce and willing to bite your head off.

He gathers himself up and backs toward the door while keeping his eyes on her, sneering.

"Do not think we are done here, _Herald._ "

And then he's gone, leaving them in temporary silence. Leliana speaks first as she seems to do when interrogation is needed.

"You speak of Solas – if I remember correctly you mentioned that you yourself are a Mage."

"I'm a _witch,_ yes. One without her wands, mind you." Magnolia answers tartly.

Leliana hums, thoughtful, turns to walk the desk sitting behind her, and pulls a simple wooden box from one of the drawers. She takes her place back at the table, turns the box in her hands to face Magnolia. From here she can see them: two wands.

Magnolia bristles, pulse rising.

"I asked for them yesterday. You left me defenseless!"

"We also did not know whether you were guilty or not. Giving you what you claim to be weapons – ones we have no knowledge on – would have been foolish." Says Cassandra.

"We retrieved these from one of the bags found on your person after the explosion. We had them examined and found nothing peculiar…"

There's a pause.

"Answer my questions and I will give your 'wands' back."

It's a hollow choice and they both know it. Even if they are Muggles she has little chance of fighting all three of them off.

Cassandra pulled her off her feet like a rag doll.

Cullen is over a head taller than her with multiple stones of weight and armor to outclass her, and Magnolia will never leave her wands. Not hers and especially not the Elder.

She sighs. "Fine, then."

Leliana slides the wands to the middle of the table, a silent incentive.

"What is your name?"

"Magnolia Potter."

Leliana gives her a look but otherwise doesn't comment.

"What were you doing at the Conclave?"

"I told you I don't remember –"

"No. You were there for a reason, before the explosion. What was it?"

Magnolia growls. She's had enough; she's done as she was told. The 'Breach' is calm, the mark is calm. She done her part and it's still not enough?

"I told you I don't know what you're talking about! I have no idea what Conclave you speak of. Not of a Divine, or a Temple of Ashes, or the mage/templar war. I don't know what the fade is. I've never seen a demon until just yesterday. Yet you treat me as if _I'm_ hiding something from _you?_ "

Beside her Cullen shifts, his hand falling to the hilt of his sword.

Leliana is thinking – her face pensive while she mulls over something. It's a very tense few moments until she speaks again.

"You are literate, yes?"

"I—of course I am."

"Very good."

She reaches off to the corner of the table where a thick red and black book is sat, and thumbs open it a random page. Leliana slides it forward a little – toward the middle of the table so it sits a little above Magnolia's wands.

"Could you read this for me? Any of it will do."

The text is rather small even if she were at a normal distance. She can see it clearly though, crisp against tinted parchment. Swirling and curving in a way she's never seen before. Magnolia tilts her head – left and right. It's not…

"What…I…"

"Yes?"

"This isn't even in English. I've never seen this language before." She scowls, never a fan of being made a fool of. "Just what are you playing at?"

"I've never heard of this Britain you speak of. I've never heard of 'English' or a 'Ministry'. You have no understanding of that which is common knowledge. You claim you are literate but cannot read a single line from that book. They say you stepped out of the Fade, perhaps that is not our biggest mystery here."

Across the table, Magnolia pales.

Leliana points to her wands.

"Show me."

Magnolia reaches, right hand forward, moving toward the box when she pauses, recoils so hard that she nearly knocks herself off balance. Body shaking, and stomach bubbling she turns her hands in front of her.

Once, twice, palms up and then down again; she twists the fingers to feel the joints strain and pop against skin.

Whose… hands are these?

When she had woken up she had been so confused; so anxious and in _pain_ that she hadn't even noticed. How had she not _noticed_? The change in size, in pigment. Her nail varnish is gone. _Whose hands are these?_

She makes a sound – choking and gasping with the lack of oxygen that makes it to her lungs and reaches blindly backward, grasping for the door and hurries out, all but sprinting and doesn't stop even when the three in the room call after her – voices raised and questioning in her sudden panic – doesn't stop even after the Chantry doors swing shut behind her.

Varric calls to her in greeting at first and then worried as she passes. Outside, down the steps, out past her cabin, past the camp grounds, past the training area. She has no mirror, but she saw the lake from her cabin window clear and sharp even from a distance.

Reflective and still.

On the bank she stops – out of breath and panicked to lean over the water. Not her face. It's not her face.

Not her eyes, or her mouth, or her skin. Not her _ears_. She curves her hand around them – traces her thumb and pointer fingers from base, up and up to a pointed tip. Elf. These are –

She empties her stomach into the water.

 _What's happening?_

* * *

AN: So, I really hope there's no spelling mistakes because boy oh boy, is this a monster of a chapter. 2000 plus words, but it's worth it. There was a lot to work in here: some basic canon stuff and a...not so basic (but ultimately important) plot point. Things are confusing right now, but that's the point right? Everything in due time. Next time in the shitty life of Magnolia Potter: culture shock.

Thanks to everyone who has given me feedback. You guys are lifesavers, truly.

Until next time,

Maleficarumm


	4. Well Sht

"I've survived a lot of things, and I'll probably survive this." – J.D. Salinger

* * *

Chapter 3: Well Shit

Whether it's a testament to the woman's tenacity, or Magnolia's own incompetence, Cassandra finds her rather quickly. She's furious as expected, left hand gripped firmly around the hilt of her sword—sneer already in place.

Magnolia thinks briefly on how ridiculous this predicament would look if there were anyone else around to witness it; puffy-eyed, face flushed from the cold and her own sobbing, trousers soaked through with snow and looking rather pathetic—sitting in muck next to a woman seemingly ready to slaughter her. She scoffs and it sounds a little hollow. Forced.

"Back to this, are we?" Magnolia asks.

Something filters across Cassandra's face then. Guilt, or maybe resignation—she can't tell; she doesn't know her well enough to know what certain emotions look to when placed on her face. Whatever it is seems to pacify her, and she lets go of her weapon—hand falling away and back to her side. Cassandra looks uncomfortable suddenly.

"You ran." she says.

"Yeah."

" _Why_ did you run?"

Magnolia's eyes go a little glassy at that.

 _You see this hand,_ she wants to say, _see this face? Not mine._ The words won't form, her throat closes around them and snuffs them out. How well would that go over with everything that's happened— _is_ happening? What would that mean in the light of everything else? What would they do to her?

Instead she says, "Felt sick. Didn't want to ruin my spotless reputation and vomit on your clean floors."

Cassandra's eyes harden at that and she pulls herself up—straighter, taller.

 _She doesn't believe you._

Suspicion is a whole another monster than proof; Cassandra has no proof and they both know it. She sighs, reaches in her coat pocket, and out come her wands. Magnolia breathes and sends a silent thanks to Merlin for small mercies.

"Oh," she says sounding every bit as surprised she feels, "my wands."

"Yes. Consider this an act of good faith. I trust you will not do anything...brash." She takes a tentative step forward and drops them into Magnolia's awaiting hands. They feel cold—all their warmth gone, but solid, reassuring. Something _familiar._ She curls her fingers around them, brings them to her chest and holds them against her heart.

 _Something of home. Something of her. Small mercies._

"Right," she says after a moment a awkward silence, "now what?"

"Now," says Cassandra, "You come with me."

Cassandra leads them back to the chantry, much to Magnolia's dismay.

"Why are we back _here_?" She all but whines. Wasn't embarrassing herself once a day enough?

"We are back here because _you_ ran off before we were finished." Informs Cassandra.

Magnolia curls into herself slightly, feeling out of her depth, but otherwise doesn't comment.

Everything is as it was when she re-enters besides the chair someone has fetched in her absence placed at the far end of the table where she once stood. Magnolia spars a glance around the room, first at Cullen and then Leliana, who looks at her a little less like prey now and a little more like a person – a promising step, maybe, but she's been wrong before. There's a short, awkward standoff while Magnolia stays idle in the doorframe, unsure of what to do, when Leliana gestures toward the chair – face pensive.

"Sit, please. We have much to discuss."

Magnolia nods, loops to go the long way around, past Leliana instead of Cullen whose looking more and more weary of her presence as time ticks by.

"Sorry...for um, before." She apologizes; less so out of genuine concern and more because it seems like the appropriate things to do. She had been the one to run off without a word, after all, and in doing so caused unwanted attention that she has no doubt she'll pay for later.

For right now she'll sit as casually as possible—pretend she's not as on edge as she is.

"Someone else will be joining us," Leliana addresses her. "A diplomat—to take note of any information you have to give."

Magnolia nods. It's not like her opinion truly matters; if anything she's telling her for the sake of politeness.

"So you believe me, then? That I'm from..." _From where? You don't even know where here is yet._ "Somewhere else?"

"We believe you are innocent as far as the Conclave goes. Anything else is to be seen." Cullen answers.

"You honestly believe I could be lying? What reason would I have to dig a bigger hole for myself?" She asks, feeling indignant.

Whatever response Cullen's about to give is cut off by a curt knock at the door, followed by a woman; with dark skin, dark hair, and rich but ultimately inconvenient looking dress wear. She's nice looking – pampered in a sort of way no one else she's run across has been. From money, maybe, but not unreadable as she'd expect from someone with the title 'diplomat' associated with their name. Instead she smiles at her—one of the few faces that hasn't looked positively murderous in her presence, which is always nice.

"Andaran atish'an," she says, hair swaying as she bows slightly in greeting.

The woman looks proud, like she's accomplished something worth mentioning, and maybe she has? Magnolia doesn't know; those words translate into a hell of a lot of nothing. She blinks dumbly at her and raises a hand in silent greeting.

Cassandra scoffs, eyes practically rolling into her skull.

"Do not bother, Josephine." which manages to sound more like: "she's hopeless, Josephine. You're wasting your time."

Josephine looks a little crestfallen but otherwise doesn't comment while she makes herself comfortable, placing down parchment, ink, and quill that she had been cradling in her arms. Hands free, she offers one to Magnolia.

"Josephine Montilyet. It's a pleasure to meet you."

Magnolia rises out of her seat slightly to shake her hand. "Hi. Magnolia Potter."

"Very well." Josephine gives a polite nod in understanding while she takes her place at the table. Behind her Cassandra, Cullen, and Leliana turn their gazes to her anew. "Shall we begin?"

She gives a tense nod, hands folded in her lap, and makes herself comfortable. This will be a long and stressful process, she knows.

Cassandra falls back a little, as does Cullen, placing themselves at the far wall while Josephine and Leliana take center—looking professional and slightly detached.

"Ive brought a map with me." Josephine says, sounding pleasant. "There are several things I'm hoping to cover in our meeting today, though I thought we could start with this." She leans forward a plucks a thickly rolled parchment from the pile. It's yellowed and torn around the edges, giving off the smell of must when she unfurls it and places four heavy looking chess pieces at its corners to keep it in position.

"I would like you to point out on this map where you are from. Simple, no?"

Magnolia nods, agreeing. "Seems all right."

World maps cover, well, the world. Any moron with even the slightest amount of geographical knowledge can point out their home country on a map. That is—one thing at least—that she has confidence in; there isn't an Auror is existence without a sense of direction.

She leans forward slightly with Josephine and Leliana at her sides, Cassandra and Cullen looking on in interest—feeling reassured. And then...

She places a hand over the map. It's so...

"Where...is everything else?" she asks.

She can all but feel the exchange of glances over her head and when she looks up, eyes wide, they're all staring at her. Magnolia looks down again—lifts a chess piece and looks at the underside. It's blank.

"This can't be right," she informs, tracing her finger around the outermost landmarks, running her hand over the single, solitary sea. "Is this a _world_ map?"

Cullen scoffs—so does Cassandra. Leliana gives them both a steady, hard stare.

"Of course it is." she tells her.

 _Of course it is._ Like it should be obvious.

"But—this. It's so _small._ What's beyond the sea?"

"We don't know." Says Josephine.

Something stirs then—like panic, confusion _,_ and she frowns.

"You don't _know_? How don't you know what's beyond the sea? Where—what..." Magnolia looks to Leliana then, only to be met with that same contemplative look she received before she had run off.

"Read this." She demands, pointing to the large, black script in the middle of southern most landmark.

"You know I _can't-"_

"Which is _fine._ " Josephine interjects quickly. "There are plenty who cannot-"

"I can! But this," she stops and jabs one finger to the text on the map, "Is _not English._ In fact, I don't believe this is a true, established language at all!"

There a pause where no one moves or makes a sound, and then Leliana reaches across the table, bringing with her a quill and ink. She flips the map over, underside right-side up.

"Write your name." She says.

"I—what?"

"Write it." She says again, not unkind, and places the quill in her hand.

Perplexed, she does as she's told—curling letters around each other and into her signature.

 _Magnolia Potter,_ says the script. Cullen and Cassandra move closer to stare, along with Leliana and Josephine. The silence that ensues is long and telling. Magnolia's brow dots with sweat. The faces around her fill with various forms of disbelief.

Josephine is the first to find her voice. "In my upbringing I have been trained in a great number of languages and I—I have...not seen this language before."

Magnolia's head swims a bit. She's glad there's nothing left in her stomach.

"It's English," she says hopelessly, "From England. Part of the United Kingdom? Europe? Haven't you, I mean, haven't you _heard_ of it?"

What more have these people never heard of? Was there no Ministries _anywhere_? Where did witches and wizards train here if not Hogwarts? If this wasn't England, of even Europe for that matter (so far from it that they didn't even know where it was located), then where was it exactly.

She swallows the bile raising up her throat, wands clutched in her hands.

 _Something of home. Something of her. Small mercies._

"Where am I?" She asks.

" _\- can't possibly believe-"_

" _\- the Fade can-"_

" _cannot make separate realities-"_

"- _otter_...Ms Potter?"

Magnolia blinks—head like cotton. "Sorry did you say something?"

Josephine looks concerned. Magnolia can't find it in herself to care much.

"I asked if you had anything else to add? Anything that might be of value."

She shakes her head, no. She's given everything: name, age, county of origin, her parents name, the school she studied at and the street she grew up on. In front of her sits a crudely drawn map of Britain, labeled with its counties and the North sea.

"I have nothing left to tell you." she says.

Cullen's armor clambers as he shifts in his place. "You can't honestly believe this nonsense?" he says. He might have said it before. She doesn't remember.

"Do you have a better explanation?"

"Unexplainable doesn't make the improbable true." His voice is rising slightly, frustrated. "What you're suggesting—what she's suggesting is far out of the realm of anything we've heard of! It _isn't_ possible."

"A few days ago Commander, we would have said walking out of the Fade and living to tell would have been impossible. Yet here we are." Leliana says.

Josephine pauses half way through furious writing and says, "The Fade is a strange place, is it not? It is not completely implausible."

Cullen scowls. "And what of the Mark? It's connected to the Breach; she did not arrive here with it! Which means she was here _before_ it opened."

Leliana gives a nod. "I'm not claiming expertise, Commander, but offering ideas where we otherwise might have none. If your teachings make you better equipped, then by all means, take over."

Cullen bristles. "I'm no expert in this!"

Josephine holds up her hands in an attempt at pacification. " _Please_ , fighting won't help. We are all at a lose."

The room fills with a tense silence only broken by Cullen's tired sigh. He runs his hands over his face and brings them to his temples.

"Ask the mage," he says. "What's his name, Solas?"

Cassandra fixes him with an unbelieving look. "You think he can help?"

"He mentioned his study of the Fade upon his arrival, which is one of the reasons you allowed him to stay. See what he knows; it's certainly more than we do, at any rate."

"I agree." Leliana says.

"It's decided then: I will approach master Solas on the matter at hand and make the proper arrangements."

Josephine casts a pointed glance at Magnolia, hunched and quiet in her seat that does not go unnoticed. "Perhaps…another time?"

She sits up, back a little straighter. "I'm fine. Let's just get this over with."

"No," Leliana protests, "There are more pressing, concrete matters at hand unfortunately. The fact remains, despite out current predicament, that you are the only person with the ability to close the rifts, meaning you are only chance at sealing the Breach."

Magnolia frowns, sagging a little in her seat. "I thought that thing in the sky was dealt with."

"It's stable for now but that doesn't mean it's dealt with. What we need now is for it to be closed. I suspect only you can do that."

"I don't know how much help I am, honestly." She says sadly. "Isn't there someone more…qualified that can help you?"

"More qualified that also comes with the ability to seal tears in the Fade?" Leliana chuckles, "Not likely, no."

"We need you," Cullen says. "This cannot work without your Mark."

Already her pulse is quickening; hands a clammy mess in her lap. Magnolia needs help, answers, and so far it seems the people in front of her might be the only ones willing to at least hear her out. How many other people could she tell the truth to? She's not in chains or dead, which feels like an almost impossible mercy, but she's been here; fought and bled and gave more than her fair share of fair shares.

"I feel a bit ill." Magnolia says truthfully. Beside her, Cassandra frowns.

Leliana nods, contemplating and says, "This is not a decision to be made lightly, I'm aware, it's grave and I cannot lie and say our plan doesn't depend on you. It will cost us all dearly if we cannot come to an understanding."

"Think on it," Josephine adds. "Please, and we will do everything in our power to aid you in whatever comes your way, I assure you."

"Right." Magnolia says.

"A meal will do you good I believe. We can continue this tomorrow."

There's a sudden, collective movement in the room. Meeting adjourned; Josephine collects her things and hurries after Cullen with a polite goodbye and a promise to speak later, followed by Leliana who isn't nearly as kind but no longer completely hostile.

Alone Magnolia and Cassandra stand, neither making an attempt at pleasantries—there's nothing more to say, really.

"I will show you to your quarters." Cassandra says stiffly.

Magnolia now too mentally drained for protests, stands and allows her to lead the way back out into the cold mountain air. The sun has long since disappeared over the horizon and with it what little warmth it provided. The bite sets in almost before she's entirely out of the doors. It doesn't help her mood.

She shivers. "It's dreadful out here."

"It always is."

"Wonderful." They pass the campsite and head down toward the training grounds where they make a right onto a dirt path leading into the trees.

"The cabin is in the other direction."

"Now that you are well we thought it best to give you a more substantial living space."

Ahead she spots another cabin, its windows an orange glow, not so unlike the one she awoke in. It's secluded—tucked into a multitude of pines with no other building close by. Cassandra opens the door for them, and inside is slightly smaller than the other one but not unpleasant. There's a hearth that's been lit, a small writing desk, wardrobe, and a single bed pushed into the farthest corner that's been piled high with furs. It's cozy; warm and welcoming in a way that feels familiar.

"Leliana thought you'd like something a little more…out of the way."

"Because of the villagers?"

Cassandra nods, Magnolia hums.

"She's not wrong."

"They mean no harm. You can hardly blame them with what you've managed."

"That doesn't mean it's not bothersome," Magnolia quips and steps past Cassandra and farther into the room, where she plops herself onto the bed. "One minute they want me dead and the next they're groveling in the dirt? Seems a little shallow."

There a moment where Magnolia thinks Cassandra might leave with how quiet and tense she's become, hovering near the door like an intruder.

"Is it true what they say, that you were spent by Andraste?"

"How should I know? I don't even know who Andraste is. What is she some sort of god?"

"No, not a god," says Cassandra, and then adds, "It's not a short tale,"

"Anyway to paraphrase it?"

Cassandra stops, thinking, and say, "Perhaps another time."

Which is fine in Magnolia's eyes; she's never been big on drawn out history lessons, besides it'll do little for her current predicaments; she tired, and confused, and so very hungry.

"I need food."

Cassandra scoffs. "How eloquent," she shakes her head, like she might be amused but doesn't wish to show it. "…there is a tavern, near the Chantry. Josephine's already requested one of the servants to bring you your supper. It should be here shortly."

"Meal, singular, as in one? I could eat quite a lot more than that right now," admits Magnolia.

"I find pacing oneself helpful in most situations," Cassandra replies not without humor and heads toward the door, signaling her departure.

"Do you believe me about what I said?" Magnolia asks before she can step fully into the night.

Cassandra pauses, door slightly ajar and turns toward her as if contemplating and says, "I believe that you believe. I believe that you aren't the danger I had originally thought you were, and that you have the power to help."

Which is a long, tactful way of saying no, she does not. Magnolia frowns, solemn but not angered. She doesn't know her well enough to be angry about it, so she says nothing and lets the other woman leave without further conversation.

Without conversation or the sounds of daily activity the night is a silence she's never experienced before; the wind has died down, the village and forest has quieted as the night grows deeper and has left little in its wake. It's unnerving, Magnolia thinks. Her childhood had hardly been a silent one living with three people who enjoyed making her life hell, and after that had been Hogwarts, or the Burrow, and the Black's old residence. Even when she was on the run, with Ron and Hermione—it hadn't been so silent.

She sighs once and stands, determined to busy herself and not think—about anything—and takes to picking about her surroundings. She starts and the wardrobe and throws it open. Inside are a handful of clothes that look too wide and long to fit her frame, along with a collection on fur hats and shawls that could come in handy. The desk holds nothing save for parchment, an inkwell and pens for writing. She opens up drawers, rearranges the beds contents, and when that's done crawls onto the floor to peer under it where she finds a small wooden chest that she drags out into the open.

Inside is crammed with papers; ink slightly faded but otherwise a decent condition. Magnolia thumbs through them in attempts to occupy her time and find it all written in that same looping text as before.

Useless.

She shoves them back into the chest and pushes it back where she found it just as there's a knock at the door. Magnolia sits for an embarrassingly long amount of time before she registers that whoever has knocked is waiting for her to answer.

"M'lady," calls a voice from the other wide of the door. Magnolia stands and strides over to the door, opening it slightly.

Outside stands a meek looking elf girl – lanky with a shock of red hair that glows in her illuminated doorframe.

"P—pardon me, M'lady. Your supper?"

She holds up a tray stocked with dried fruits, meats, some sort of indistinguishable stew, and a small loaf of bread. Beside her in the snow is a pitcher of water.

Magnolia opens the door farther, eager.

"Thank Merlin," she breathes, "Come in."

The girl hesitates. "I shouldn't."

Magnolia smiles in a way she hopes in comforting and beckons her in with a small gesture. The girl doesn't look any more at ease but doesn't argue as she shuts the door behind her.

"You have my thanks, Herald." She keeps her head down even as she hands over the tray of food and pours her a glass of water. Her hands shake and shake, all the way through the small process and back into the nighttime air.

Magnolia sits at her desk, casts a final glance around, and not for the first time—eats her meal alone.

* * *

AN: Sometime I get so nervous that I can't post a thing. Then I remember that I'm a human being with flaws, that things won't always be perfect, and that I write for fun. Remember fun? Sometime I do, too. On that note, hey, kid, you like music? Because The Witcher 3 soundtrack is a lifesaver. Also, have fun with dialogue, because I sure didn't.

AN #2: Excuse any mistakes I'm truly sorry I haven't been asleep in over 24 hours what is sleep even.

Until next time,

Maleficarumm


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